Tan God

While I was out treading the boards, and receiving high praise for it, another 11 men were putting the 20th Century's finest club to the sword. Damn me and my now twinkling toes. Still, the highlights featured 11 of our 12 shots on target, and 2 of their 3. Arguably there wasn't much else to the game, although I may have to watch the first 20 minutes online later to see how we set the tone.

There was good contrast and some fine twists. Here's hoping for an excellent finish over the next six weeks.

I'm saddened, but delighted by how you've turned out. My favourite died, but with just one book to go, his demise came far enough in for me to have seen plenty of him.

I'm confused. I thought you were a dense, heady tome. It turns out you're a series of bullet points, each explaining things that I already know from other works. I guess some other writers have done their research too.

Over By Over and Over Again

This is what gets me through most days. Well, when there's play that is. Such a simple principle, and yet so enjoyable. I used to watch a lot of cricket when I was young, during those long, grey-skied, rain-splashed summers spent pining for the outdoors, or guzzling a mug of Bovril after spending two hours getting hammered in KitKat Tennis. The BBC had it then, or Channel 4 maybe. The Windies were my favourites then, although they seem to have lost some of their style and panache in recent years. The twin towers of Curtly Ambrose and Courtney Walsh charging in and spearing red leather into hard dirt past stout willow. The young ebullient Brian Lara smashing run after run on his way to immortality. All long-since faded now.

Irish people have problems with cricket. It's so very English. It's boring. It takes five days to play. Those reasons are all part of why I love it. I can think of no better activity than spending five days in a park, whiling away the hours, while the white-clad warriors play their game of life and death and a series of numbers tick along on a big black board - something to keep an eye on. Even Americans, after their fashion, know the joys of this. Their own version of bat and ball is something they savour during the summer months. It pains me that this most beautiful and leisurely of sports is so derided in our land. Even our World Cup Heroes gained little recognition, and even less respect.

During that World Cup I have a right old time of it trying to find pubs and places to watch it in. The rockers downstairs in The Neptune had a good laugh at my expense as we played Zimbabwe. By the end though, I had the nuances and skills explained to them, along with the basic rules, and as it reached the finale, where we eventually drew, they were cheering along with me. We won a match then, against Pakistan, and were through to the second round - that's better than what our much-vaunted egg-chasers managed in their last outing on the world stage. I didn't manage to see that game, being in Sweden at the time didn't help.

In the second round we had a game against the old enemy, England. Now, being a good Irishman, I'm always up for a crack at the Sasanach, and I presumed that, no matter the sport, everyone else on this isle would have been too. How wrong I was. First there was the trouble of getting them to turn over from Sky News' rolling inanity in Kennedy's of Westland Row. This was at about 4 pm on a Friday, when surely nothing fantastic was about to happen. Then, as we toiled in the sun against our superior opponents, the channels were changed, on all 5 screens, so that we could all watch Munster play European Cup rugby. I asked for just one screen to be changed back, so we could at least keep an eye on Trent and the boys. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that Kennedy's was an Irish rugby pub, and wouldn't be showing such foreign filth for the duration of the match. I bit my loosened tongue and wandered off in search of a more amicable location.

Ireland's oldest cricket club can be found in the Pav, Trinity, however, they too had fallen foul of the great Heineken curse. I was left with no choice but to retire homewards, refreshing the over-by-over on my phone as I went, and streaming the game online when I got home. We were well beaten, but only by virtue of a man named Collingwood's stones. His iron will got England home that day, but I sometimes wonder, if the whole country had gone Cricket mad, if we had all decided to go on the lash and really get behind the team, if the players had known that we were gone bananas and right behind them, would things have been a little different? Would they have tried just that little bit harder and got one over them?

We play England in Belfast later this year. Another crack at them just after they finish playing for the Ashes against Australia. If the Aussies have hammered them, we might have a chance of causing an upset. Maybe if they do, the public will start to realise that we have a team on the cusp of joining the world's elite. It's important to be up there in world sport, to show a winning mentality. It engenders a national pride and a culture of success, something that is sorely needed these days. I'll be there, supping on a flagon and scribbling terrible poetry as we bat and bowl for our lives. But today, let's cheer for the Windies as they wrap up their first series win of the milennium over their, and our, old masters.

Donkey Shot

I thought this last night, Twitter is for twits. Really, it reminds me of some processed meat barn, where the soon-to-be-ready meals live out their days in darkness squalking their emptiness to the rafters. It's a gobbling gaggle of useless guff, garbled together for no gain. It's a soulless store of sordid sentences, seemingly supposed to spread sentience. It's a.. well, you get the idea.

But is it? Maybe it's worthwhile. Maybe, just maybe, this is the beginning of our new, superhuman hive mind. Imagine it. Get someone else to imagine it and twit you about it. Can you twit someone? In years to come non-twits may well be hunted down because of the partitioned nature of their minds; their seperate individuality, which they refused to share with the broiling masses. I can't wait. A superhuman hive-mind only capable of saying things like: "I'm off to the shops!" and "OMG, ROFL, Rhianna + Britney naked." If that super-powered glob of brain power should ever come for me, I have a plan. I will trick them with twits. They will be running right for me, when I will twit them saying:

"No, not that way, he's behind you."

Slowly, the amorphous gelatinous blob will reverse its advance, and I will skulk away, still twitting:

"@GelBlob: That's it. You're nearly there."
"@GelBlob: Almost got him."
"@GelBlob: Gently now."
"@GelBlob: Do it so he won't even realise he's in."

But, obviously before I know it, the blob will have me. By twitting him, I reveal myself to be a twit. And so, I will make it my mission to hunt you down free-thinkers.

"@Independent Thinking Humans of the Earth who refuse to join Twitter: I'll get you next time!"

Sunny Sun Day

I still say we should have dug a trench and floated it off while we had the chance.

Why won't you just organise yourself into a seamless piece of prose, complete with reverence and wit. Do I have to do everything round here?

In 23 days a whole new world of pain is going to come crashing down on top of me. I do these things for sport, right? Still, to continue with the analogy, I expect to be severely undercooked going in, but one must peak at the right time. Maybe some light training between now and then will get me over the line.

Fairplay Mary and Derval, performing when it counts. Shameful, shameful bronze it may be, but it's more than the boys are bringing home. Is the confidence brought about by the Celtic Tiger years breeding new levels of success? Are we no longer a nation of semi-talented no-hopers? Do we really, honestly, possess that deep in our bowels belief that makes Australians such ruthless competitors? Have our spines turned to steel at last? One can only hope so, for there's nothing quite like a disappointed medalist to spur us all on.

Surf Ire

I should have been here yesterday, but the lure of cotton and warm comfort proved too much. Despite my protestations, I remained unproductive.

Bah, you anonymous shill. I hate how you have made me defend myself. It's always hard to know whether it is better to ignore baseless allegations, or reject them outright. By ignoring them, you allow rumour and conjecture to foster, by rejecting, you give them acknowledgement. Either way he got his rise, and I feel like a marlin on its way to shore.

The wait goes on for my inspiration. I can feel it, but I cannot touch it. It will leak from me soon, of that much I am certain, but the question remains, will I be ready for it?

Cough Fee

Seeing the dawn two days in a row makes it more difficult to rise for the slog on the third.

The bones in my ears have stopped vibrating, finally. There was every chance that they wouldn't and that I'd be left with a medium-pitched hum in there for all eternity. It was, however, on a pleasant note, so it may have served to keep me in key.

Such control, such good management under pressure: is that what was missing? It was a one-point thumping to be fair, and their score at the end was a reflection of their impressive psychology in the face of our team, who believed us to be home. Dangerous, but the Kid will stop that next time around. Another two weeks until the next outing, which is a pity, back-to-back makes it more exciting.

We were abject. Disinterested. Well no, we weren't. Not at first, although to read the reports you would think it. We were on top, creating at will but not finishing - a common complaint this time around - and when they got their bit of luck it was always going to be more difficult. We felt as if the tide had turned against us, and they had new belief. Little wonder that we could not claw it back. Still, it's only the second time we have tasted defeat this year. A fact that augers well for us.

It's lonely enough with you gone, at least one of us is having fun I suppose, although vicarious vacations just don't have the same effect.

Happy Birthday Dad.

A Tease Match Bocks Be Lion This As Terre

Hold on, till I rearrange my weekend, although how you escaped me in the first place I'll never know. I'll need to wash my t-shirt too - the stress!

It was attritional in patches, but once their spirit left them, early enough too, it was there to be taken. They should not have the guts to come to ours and front up, but they are dangerous still. A second yesterday may have sealed the deal.

My mind's not on it, there's too much happening. As I eagerly refresh hoping for a result, my thoughts turn to those single rogue magpies that haunted my tardy morning's journey. Begone vile beasts and curse me no more.

You are now the proud owner of what exactly?

Repel Lent

You are my brush. The floor is my canvas. I have learnt the forms and now must sweep you, this way, then that, to create beauty.

I am there to exhibit you, to show you off, but also to lead and control you.

You are there to follow me, to feel free on the paths I lead you down, to move as I direct.

We are balanced, a constant circle that knows no beginning nor end and that must proceed with care and grace and, not least, elegance.

I flipped them all. Each arced high into the fluorescent night and returned safely to its hot home. Then they were slathered and encrusted, prior to being consumed.

I stared at your one giant eye and you fed me tales of fantastic places, after a fashion, before I went once more to dream and begin the nightmare anew.

You're still there, although they say it won't be long. At least they have afforded you dignity and privacy this time, much like I suggested all those months ago. I hope you feel peace and no fear, for there is nothing to be afraid of. The ones left behind will feel all the pain.

Thought Full

When you remember something, are you remembering the event itself or the last time you remembered it??

Pass Ion

Today is the greatest of all the holidays. It is the only one that involves no gift giving of any kind, scalding hot implements, and thick gooey batter.

I'm a mean pancake flipping machine, and let it be known that only a flipped pancake contains the true measure of taste, those that are spatula-turned taste flat and limp compared to the joy that exudes from a pancake that has defied gravity.

My toppings of choice are traditional, some butter, sugar, and lemon juice. I normally avoid lemons, the only other ingestion I make of them being as part of an occasional rock shandy, but there is something magic about the combination of a lemony tang with the sweet greasiness of the butter and the savoury lightness of the pancake.

My batter was made last night in a flurry of activity after I came home from the slog - it is highly recommended that it be allowed to settle for at least 30 minutes before use - the more old-school and prepared among us go for the overnight.

It will be late by the time I get my chops around one at all, for I must dance this eve, but pancakes and highlights after a delightful Tango seem like a pleasant reward for my Tuesday efforts.

Read Just

The work is drying up.

23 out of 278 is decent, but not prize-winning.

Don't make me relive my so-called illness, it's difficult enough to stay in character, let's just leave the past behind us.

Will I feel it when you pass? Will I know? I'm pretty sure the last time someone that close to me went on I knew it before the call came in. Was that because we were closer, or will it happen this time too?

Greenery

Why aren't wind turbines made from solar panels??

Palin Drome

Severed from the synthesis of synthesis theses.

Striking smooth and straight for eighty.

Finding the right recipe for aural perfection is more difficult when one knows not how to cook with sounds.

A day one stew cooked slow is equivalent to a quickly boiled day three.

Con Text

Lies from above hold more water than mine.

My doings come second, naturally. They are of little consequence.

Just don't bother.

Whizz, er?

Pandora: "She's upset becuase her mum got caught making monkey and her dad went ape: Bananas!"

She says she's useless, but she's a riot.

GO PANDA!!!

A Musing

Would being kept in a darkened room really inhibit stimuli to the brain?

Would not that fine organ run wild with panic and fierce imaginings if kept enclosed in black silence for ten minutes or so?

A finer way to limit cognition would surely be to sit a patient on a bus through town, which would guarantee the certainty of mind-numbness. Such a humming, humid atmosphere has a deadening effect, as do the vacant stares of those empty vessels, clinging hard to their dreams as they drift through this plane, stunted and shunted aside. The everlasting crawl through the city's choked arteries, riddled with car cholesterol, kills desire and vanquishes all inspiration. The grey skies and hanging mists suck the light from all lives. Those tragic adverts on the side of the street with all the penetration of a eunuch go unnocticed as the frozen grey matters slip by, unmoved.

That should be the baseline, they don't come deader than that.

Am I Cable?

Embrace Finns bearing gifts: Play bad. Win.

A quick slap of the pan thins one out for even heat distribution and maximum rarity.

Play with your monopoly money and pray it doesn't become real.

We'll transform your rhythms into a singularity before we attempt to add to them.

The Admiral seemed to be an actor.

Re: View

My lead was sloppy. No poise, no grace, poor balance. Turn your shoulders without moving your hips.

It's funny how the one without power was the bravest of them all.

Our rivals went down to a superior entity. As superior beings, can we deal with the inferior?

BANG.

that's it.

gone and done it now.

Tonight, we dance.